


Uncanny

by kathkin



Series: A Few Notes in the Song of Creation (a Lord of the Rings Dæmon AU) [18]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-07-08 02:30:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19862041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathkin/pseuds/kathkin
Summary: He had travelled far in his life and met many Men and Women whose dæmons were small and often hidden; and he had known some dæmons who preferred to talk only to their Man or Woman, when alone. Both together he had not encountered before, and he found himself unnerved.





	Uncanny

**Author's Note:**

> a) Wikipedia on [dæmons](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/D%C3%A6mon_\(His_Dark_Materials\)).
> 
> b) [Ground rules for this AU](http://penny-anna.tumblr.com/post/174266827343/ground-rules-for-d%C3%A6mon-au).
> 
> c) See end notes for dæmon key!

Rain fell in misting droplets, clinging to Nimbrethil’s coat like morning dew. Boromir ran his hand along her shaggy neck as he joined her at the water’s edge and scratched her behind the ear. Her ears flicked and she shot him a grim look as if to say _now is not the time to be playful_ ; but she did not truly mind.

The pool was wide and deep, the water grey-black like charcoal and thick with weeds and dead leaves. He could not see below the surface. The company was ranged about the water and along the grim, narrow stream that fed it, their march for the day over.

Somewhere in the sky above them was Theryn, Aragorn’s uncanny dæmon. They would make camp when she returned from her scouting.

Beside Boromir and Nimbrethil, close by the edge of the water, stood Frodo, his hood drawn up, his shoulders hunched. His head was angled towards the pool, but whether he was studying the waters or merely sleeping on his feet Boromir wasn’t sure.

Sleeping on his feet, he thought. Aloud, he said, “what evils might lurk in there, I wonder.”

“Leeches, most likely,” said Frodo from within his hood. His voice sounded strange, low and husky; he did not sound himself. Exhausted, Boromir judged, and perhaps frightened of what lay ahead of them.

“Do not be afraid.” He laid a hand upon Frodo’s shoulder. Frodo shifted and at once Boromir regretted touching him. Frodo’s dæmon was somewhere on his person, perhaps in a pocket, perhaps within his hood – or amongst the folds of his cloak. He knew enough to know that insect-dæmons were sturdier than they might look, but nonetheless a thoughtless touch, a knock in the wrong place –

But Frodo was only turning. He looked up at Boromir, his face grim and damp from the rain, and smiled tightly. “I’m not afraid of leeches,” he said, his voice steadier, its usual pitch.

And there was Gentian, within his hood, a pale snatch of wing just visible against his dark hair. Frodo looked back at the water and said, “being stuck out in the rain puts us in a foul mood. I’m sorry.”

An odd turn of phrase, and for half a moment Boromir wasn’t sure if he meant the company or himself.

He had known enough Men and Women with insect dæmons to know that rain could be troublesome. He said, “the rain is difficult for her?”

For a moment Frodo looked out over the silent water. Then he said, “yes.” Turning he squelched his way across the wet grass to join the other halflings.

Momentarily alone, Boromir touched a hand to Nimbrethil’s head in thought.

He had travelled far in his life and met many Men and Women whose dæmons were small and often hidden; and he had known some dæmons who preferred to talk only to their Man or Woman, when alone. Both together he had not encountered before, and he found himself unnerved.

Gentian’s silence was strange, and grew stranger over time. The dæmons of the other halflings spoke often to Boromir and oftener still to Nimbrethil, but even Nimbrethil had not heard Gentian’s voice. _I trust her_ , she had said to Boromir in a moment alone, _but I do not think she trusts me, and I know not why._

And yet Gentian spoke often to the other dæmons, or seemed to. He saw them in conversation; he did not hear Gentian’s voice, small as it must be.

Footsteps pattered across the grass towards him. Windflower, in the shape of a young deer, and beside her Pippin. “Penny for them,” he said brightly.

“Excuse me?” said Boromir.

“You were standing there looking all thoughtful,” said Pippin. At his heels, Windflower shrank into the shape of a cat and dipped a paw in the water. Screwing up her face, she darted behind her hobbit.

“Might I ask,” said Boromir. “Is Gentian mute?”

“Gentian?” said Pippin, taken aback by the question. Windflower flitted bird-form to his shoulder. “Oh – oh, I see.” Cocking his head to the side he thought for a moment. He said, “Genty’s – shy.”

“Shy,” Boromir repeated. Pippin shrugged as if to say, _what else is there to say._

Looking to Windflower, Nimbrethil said, “she will not speak to me.”

“Like he said,” said Windflower. “Shy.” So saying, she changed from a bird into a grey moth like Gentian and perched on Pippin’s ear as if in demonstration, though of what Boromir couldn’t fathom.

Nimbrethil seemed to understand something more of it, though not enough to satisfy her. Flattening her ears, she said, “hm,” and turned away.

“What’s the matter?” said Windflower in a tiny, whispering voice.

“She does not trust me,” said Nimbrethil.

“Well, there’s trust and trust, isn’t there?” said Pippin to her. “I wouldn’t worry about it.” So saying, he nodded to Boromir and ambled away.

Crouching, Boromir said into his dæmon’s ear, “did that mean anything to you?”

Nimbrethil said, “not a thing.”

*

He dream, feverishly, of the woods where they were camped, the woods filled with lights and beating wings; and when he opened his eyes in the darkness to the sound of voices, he was not at first sure if he was asleep or awake.

Boromir raised his head. Nimbrethil, a warm and steady presence at his back, was already awake, her head raised and ears pricked. She said nothing, and whatever she had seen or heard she wanted him to do likewise.

Sitting up more fully, slow and careful so as to make no sound, he looked. He saw lights moving in the darkness, as in his dream; but he saw them now not for phantoms but lanterns, carried by half-seen figures.

Few travelled those forsaken lands. Those people, whoever they were, might be fleeing the enemy, might need help; or they might be the enemy’s own servants. He could see in Nimbrethil’s eyes that she was thinking the same thing.

Beside them, Gimli the dwarf lay slumbering fitfully. “Gimli,” said Boromir softly. “Gimli!”

“Hm?” The dwarf opened his eyes.

Just as he did so, the light from the lanterns brightened, and they heard upon the night air the sound of singing.

The figures moving through the trees had no dæmons, or none that he could see, and were clothed in white. Their voices were high, and strange. “Are they elves?” said Gimli.

Elves, yes; they must be elves. Without thinking Boromir began to push himself up, but a soft huff of breath from Nimbrethil stopped him.

“I smell no elves,” she said.

“What do you smell?” he said, forcing himself back down into his bedroll. It was harder than it ought to be, to not follow that song between the trees.

“I know not,” she said. “They do not smell like men, either.”

But what else could they be, Boromir thought. They had no dæmons, and so were not men. They were certainly not dwarves.

“They can only be elves,” said Gimli, echoing his thoughts. “I do not like this.”

The singing, that moved through the air; was it elvish? No elvish that he knew, but perhaps high elvish. The words flowed through the air like wind, or like water. _Come hither_ , they seemed to say. _Come hither. It is safe. You are welcome_.

“I want to go to them,” he said.

“I know,” said Nimbrethil.

Gimli grunted, and what he meant by it Boromir didn’t know for sure, but he guessed that it was an agreement; that the dwarf, too, wanted to go to those figures in the woods, to hear their song, to look upon their faces.

What could they be, but elves. He had never known Nimbrethil’s nose to lead her wrong but perhaps now she was wrong. The figures were far off. The air was still, the scent of the forest strong. Elves, who might help them in that lost, forsaken country they wandered in. Were they lost? Yes; they must be lost. Why else would they be so far from home?

Beside him Nimbrethil had begun to growl, a low, steady growl of distress.

Slowly, he began to ease himself up, preparing to stand, to approach, to get a closer look.

Scant inches from his ear a voice said, “Boromir!”

And Boromir sat frozen, chilled to the bone. For that voice was so close, closer to him even than Nimbrethil – closer than could be possible, for he had not heard or sensed anyone approaching, and neither had she.

So close – and not the voice of any of the company. A stranger.

Stranger still, for as the icy shock left him he realised it was not the voice of any man or elf or halfling; it was the voice of a dæmon. How he knew he could not say, but he knew. And that could not be, for it was a male voice, and there were no women in the company whose dæmons might speak so.

And yet the dæmon could not have come from the figures in the trees, for they had none. Fear prickled along his spine.

Aloud, he whispered, “who is there?”

The voice whispered back in urgent tones, “it’s me, Gentian!”

“ _Gentian_?” said Boromir.

“Frodo’s dæmon,” said Gentian.

“I know who you are,” said Boromir, bewildered. Gentian, the moth; the silence, and the closeness. Small wonder Boromir had not known him. In the hazy lantern light he glimpsed movement beside him, the beating of tiny wings. “Whence came you?”

“Gandalf sent me,” said Gentian. “He –”

“Gandalf?” said Boromir.

“Yes, Gandalf!” said Gentian. “Will you be quiet and let me speak? This hurts!”

Boromir thought, _hurts_? And then he heard it, what he had not heard at once; the strain in Gentian’s voice, the strain of being too far away from his halfling. He thought of the spot where Frodo and the other halflings had made their beds; not far away, a few moments’ stride, but for a dæmon, alone? His guts churned and beside him Nimbrethil let out a whine.

“Gandalf says, _they are not elves_ ,” said Gentian. “He says, stay low and quiet and whatever you do don’t go to them.”

“We were not going to,” said Nimbrethil.

“Gimli,” said Gentian, ignoring her. Faintly, Boromir caught the sound of his wings fluttering. “Did you hear me?”

“I hear you, little one,” said Gimli.

“Good,” said Gentian. “Now do as you’re told.”

“Gentian,” said Boromir softly, meaning to ask more questions; but as soundlessly as he had come the moth-dæmon was gone into the night.

The singers, whatever they were, and their strange lanterns were passing already into the gloom beyond the trees, winking out one by one like stars in the face of dawn. 

Boromir counted his breaths until at long last they were all gone, and the woods were still; and even then he did not dare move. Only when he heard the rustling movements and voices of the others of the company did he stand and go to join them.

He and Nimbrethil and Gimli the dwarf emerged from their hiding place into a hushed commotion.

“– _never_ make us do that again,” Frodo was saying. He stood before Gandalf, his shoulders shaking as if his breathing was laboured, his hands cupped before his chest, holding something tight to his body. “I, I –”

“I’m fine,” said the muffled voice of his dæmon from his hands. “I’m _fine_ , stop fussing.”

“I didn’t make you do anything,” said Gandalf. “I merely asked.”

“You shouldn’t have been asking,” said Sam, who stood by Frodo, bundled in his cloak against the chill.

“Sam, hush,” said Frodo.

“ _You_ hush,” said Gentian.

“I wouldn’t have asked if I did not think it was necessary,” said Gandalf curtly. “It’s not as if it’ll do you any lasting harm.”

“ _Lasting harm_ ,” Frodo echoed. “What would you know about it? You don’t even –”

“Rather a lot, as it happens,” said Gandalf.

“Just because Genty and I –”

Whatever Frodo had been going to say, it was then that he noticed Boromir and Gimli, and at once he fell silent. His hands unclasped and Gentian flew, with a supercilious air, to the hood of his cloak. Frodo eyed Boromir, but said nothing.

Boromir looked to the other halflings, to Merry and Pippin. He judged they were as disquieted as he. He cleared his throat, and said, “you have quite a range.”

“Yes,” said Frodo. Gentian flicked his wings, and said nothing.

At his feet, Sam’s dæmon whined, her tail dropping to the ground. Sam shushed her.

“Is it safe now?” said Frodo.

“As safe as it can be,” said Gandalf.

“Then I’m going to lie down,” said Frodo.

*

The day was dark, as if it were twilight, the sky grey and heavy with overdue rain. Boromir lay awake. Nimbrethil lay beside him, her face turned away, her ears alert and twitching.

After long moments, she raised her head and looked him in the eye. Together, they stood.

Frodo sat a little way up the rise from the company, on watch but not as watchful as he ought to be. His eyes lazily scanned the hills around them, as if sitting awake was all he need do. This was a skill he did not have, and did not know he did not have.

“May I sit with you?” said Boromir.

Frodo glanced at him. His hands were clasped before his chest, holding in his dæmon. “You should be resting.”

“I think you need rest more than I,” said Boromir, for the halfling’s face was grim, his eyes heavy.

“That’s not your problem,” said Frodo.

Whether or not that was true was another matter. Boromir had come upon this quest to protect him, as they all had. He sat, and Nimbrethil sat beside him. “I understand why you kept him from me,” he said.

“I don’t keep him from people,” said Frodo, looking out at the horizon. “He keeps himself to himself.”

Nimrethil huffed, her ears going flat against her head in displeasure. She did not like not being trusted. It was not in her nature; and though Boromir was not as displeased as she was, nonetheless he agreed. He had placed his trust in Frodo, at first out of necessity and as time passed by choice. It did not feel right for it not to be returned.

Sensing her displeasure, Frodo looked at Nimbrethil and said, “it’s just easier that way.”

Boromir thought of Niphredil, his brother’s dæmon, so very far away, not knowing if Boromir and Nimbrethil were lost or dead. They had vanished into the north and might never return. He thought of Niphredil.

He said, “you have nothing to fear from me.”

Gazing at him with a tired and wry look in his eye, Frodo said, “I hope you’re right.”

He shifted, and uncupped his hands. Gentian emerged, stretching out his wings and fluttering to Nimbrethil. He rested on the edge of her ear. “I wouldn’t have spoken to him,” he said to her, “if I did not trust you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Dæmons in this fic:
> 
>  **Pippin and Windflower:** unsettled.  
>  **Frodo and Gentian:** [pale tussock moth](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Calliteara_pudibunda#/media/File:Calliteara_pudibunda.jpg).  
>  **Boromir and Nimbrethil ("Faist"):** [grey wolf](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gray_wolf#/media/File:European_grey_wolf_in_Prague_zoo.jpg).
> 
> This fic was in part inspired by the 'fake' elf creatures in [Poisoned Mushrooms](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15026981/chapters/34835672) by Yambits.


End file.
